Poem: Writing what is to hand

It’s been a dull, flat day and I was walking more for exercise than in the expectation of seeing any wildlife, but as I stepped onto the towpath I saw a group of a dozen or so ducks on the canal. They were too slender to be mallards, and they were behaving oddly, alternately diving down into the water, and swimming very fast along the surface. They were moving faster than I could walk, and it took me a while to come level with them.

Goosanders, the females’ top-knots as auburn as the dead bracken on the opposite bank of the canal, the males spic and span as piano keys. I’ve seen goosanders here before, but only as lone individuals, and never as active as these, their ducking and diving now interspersed with short bursts of flight. I watched them until they'd skittered out of sight.

The towpath was slippery and I turned off onto the main road. Above the hill next to Gorsey Hill Wood a kestrel hung on the wind.

Writing what is to hand

A winter of illness

and the days still dwindling,

not lasting as long as I would like;

the field I walk is sodden with last night’s rain,

but ah, above it, a kestrel,

holding still on the wind.